Spiders and such things
by 221Beatsofmyheart
Summary: Mrs Hudson calls upon her boys to save her from a spider, petty fights are had, and many lessons are learnt.
1. Chapter 1

"Boys!" Mrs Hudson shrieked, cowering in a dignified way that only Mrs Hudson could.

Sherlock burst through with a specifically sized riding crop just long enough to cover the end of his hand to his elbow. It can only broaden the imagination to think of the reason.

The source of distress for Mrs Hudson had to be serious for a woman of her intergrity and grace to ask nothing of the men of 221b. In any case, the spider that was cycling the floor as if caught in a washing machine was more than a valid reason.

Sherlock having been torn away from a particularly intense confrontation and attempt to dissect the anatomy and validicity of a phone wire not holding back from literally hurling himself holding only onto John who had been attempting to pull him back who had dropped his cup of tea and pieces of china had spilt on the floor, Sherlock's toe balancing on the window sill.

The scream/queen bee demand had the hive scurrying to attend to her bidding. Though, Sherlock did plummet from the window and land on the pavement below. Seemingly unscathed. Though with Sherlock you can never be sure. Fingers stuck to hair John thrust his head through the window which might as well be fixed by super glue because they never did leave.

He battled with the window, heavings upwards, downwards, sidewards, every possible angle-wards to prise it open without success so he extend the limited view of Sherlock's death waiting to happen. Although he wouldn't be suprised if Sherlock was the grim reaper himself; he certainly had the stance for it. Stumbling like a moth in light, he blotted out John's insults. He'd never win a game of scrabble, Sherlock retorted mentally. It was a very nice thought. He was still sore from the endless Cluedo losses.

Sherlock reentered the building, dotting his finger marks along the plaster line and wiping it with a steady, poised thumb as he crossed into Mrs Hudson's flowered lare of exceedingly bright and war veteran physciche. It must be why John and Mrs Hudson get along so well; their interests crossed quite fittingly.

John Watson had already sprung to the kitchen and he was using a jam jar resting his weight on one knee, head cocked to the side and his black cardigan pushed back from his forearms exposing the thin and light hair of his arms and leather watch. Sherlock used the fridge to lean on (Lean being a loose term; for Sherlock only supports himself, and quite rightly.) to entertain how the situation would resolve.

Mrs Hudson hadn't leapt upon a chair like a conventional housewife. She had set her limits higher. She was so light and frail that she was sat without harm on the top of the highest cupboard her white tighted legs and size 4 shoes dangling over. Her hands that she often pretended had simply wrinkled from a luxiourous bath hadn't disappeared yet so she "Can feel younger, John dear." clinging harshly the the edges but her legs were crossed and she was sat as if she was just taking a rest instead of hiding from the mortal threat of a spider climbing up her dress.

John concentrated. He could pass as animal rights activist and in his mind, maybe he is. Fondly he coaxed the glass closer to the spider. It wriggled as if to say "Buddy, look. My plans were purely innocent."

John's lips pursed sucking on his bottom lip as he came closer and closer to the spider, now on two knees.

He inched further.

Closer and closer-

until he was just they were almost engaging in eye contact, a staring contest of a sort,

In came the jam jar edging around like a child was moving a toy train across a toy raill line.

Almost there,

Just a little nudge,

Mrs Hudson almost weeping for joy,

Barely space between the spider and the jar,

Sherlock let out a full bellied roar of laughter. The spider sprang upwards into John's face and he flew backwards into the fridge where Sherlock was making throatal sounds of amusement that came from very dark and rural places in London, heard in the pipes and whirl of taxi wheels upon curbs. The jar flew into the kitchen table and smashed in two. The shock making Mrs Hudson fall very oblivious from the top of the kitchen.

In a fraction of a millisecond John catapulted to the other side of the kitchen. He caught her just as she was about to hit the ground, his arms acting as a trampoline and a parachute for her needs.

Dazed, Mrs Hudson spoke out as if she needed glasses and was looking out through mist. Overall she sounded chippy. "That was close wasn't it John, dear?"

John's mouth was an expressive O shape. Not an 'oh' O a 'Oh my fucking god you utter fucking moron.' O. He shot it like an arrow at Sherlock who seemed as if the whole ordeal had simply distracted him from other things.

Mrs Hudson gathered her mentality. Her forgiving nature swaying not even once, as if nothing had happened. She was extremely pleased to hear Sherlock's rare laughter. "Oh Sherlock you naughty, naughty boy."

John on the other hand, believed there was a time and place for laughter. None which Sherlock ever chose.

Sherlock's tone was fond.(Sickly and irrelevant to John.) "Mrs Hudson, the magnificent flying housekeeper class act. Critically acclaimed yet unmistakably beautiful."

John rose and he set Mrs Hudson down on one of the chairs at the table. As soon as he guranteed her safety, checked for a concussion or even such as a graze on her. He walked straight up to the fridge and pressed his finger straight into Sherlock's chest causing him to loose footing and fall back into the fridge.

Sherlock's lip turned in the proximity that John had managed to claim. Why always was that? His eyes took a detour to John's eyes that were speckled with blonde. Odd. Always odd. The anger that dwelled there. Not odd. Very John. He should know. Very John is his expertise.

John pressed his finger into Sherlock again, more forceful this time. Pulling it back and using the force of both his hands to slam him into the fridge again, umimpressed with his actions.

"Do you have a heart in there?" implored John, awaiting an answer in a seething fashion.

He wasn't sure why he was asking that question. Obviously being a medical man every being had a heart. If not for that knowledge he certainly wouldn't have made it into play- school: nurses and doctors club when he was four let alone a humbling university. And of course, he knew more than anyone the heart he always saw beat gold underneath Sherlock's clothing but cunt actions like these made him reconsider.

"John, the way in which you approached that spider was like walking in on Anderson naked. It was too humourous that my physical reactions were too strong for me. It's something I always working on to remove any idea to any thing that I am thinking for me and myself only-"

"You've seen Anderson naked? My god, Sherlock. I hope that was hypothetical."

He frowned. "Partially."

"You mean-"

"Yes."

"Naked- I mean-"

"Yes."

John's hold loosened. He tightened it fiercely collecting himself from a confession section from a tabloid.

"Just..." he puffed outwards the tiredness showing in his face. "...keep it to yourself next time Sherlock, please. Mrs Hudson could have been hurt."

John looked back over at Mrs Hudson who had somehow gotten ahold of his laptop and was puzzling over where to find the '?' key.

Gaping, John moved his attention back onto Sherlock who looked over at Mrs Hudson as if she was his superhuman calling and they were trapped in a marvel movie. John softened, rolling his shoulders slightly and giving way to Sherlock who went over to stand behind Mrs Hudson and rest his hand on her shoulder as she leant in close to the laptop her forehead nearly touching the screen. Sherlock pulled her back gently and she leaned in again, her facial expression baffled by what she was looking at on the screen.

John opened the fridge and brought out a carton of milk and put the kettle on. He landed himself into the chair opposite. Something that hadn't occured to him before, occured to him now.

"How-how did she know my password?"

Sherlock's eyes glinted as Mrs Hudson gazed upwards adoringly at him. It was like a club whose privacy was revealed. Lord knows how many nights while John had fallen onto his bed after crawling in from an exhausting day at training for the surgery and catering domestic goods for the three of them and running around after Sherlock in a wild goose chase had they been spending evenings exploring the inner-most of his files.

Although he preferred his private life remain his own he could forgive the intrusion. Why had he questioned Sherlock's heart? They broke eye contact as Mrs Hudson moved her head to look up at Sherlock again. John's heart swelled like jumper in water and smiled in admiration.

"Oh, where is that lovely, lovely poem we found that John wrote about you, Sherlock dear?"

John's smile fell.


	2. Chapter 2

The rest of the evening the night before had consisted of rowdy blithers of "There are limits!", "Privacy, mean anything to you Sherlock?" "No, it wasn't about you. How could you think-oh, it says your name but-" slamming of doors and such the like.

Mrs Hudson loved her boy's tiffs. She was always an accidental culprit of being an instigater. She thought of them as her guardian angels but she couldn't help but think her a cupid herself.

After watering the planets she had encrusted like vines wrapped around the outside of 221B to cater for her life-long dream of having a nice, big garden despite Sherlock's protests of "It's not a bloody gardening centre!" which she had replied: "And neither is your flat a life-sized science experiment, dear."

She sometimes made little visits to their flat some mornings. To preen and look after her boys, really. Collect a few stray socks or two to wash, wipe down dust and spray air conditioner all over where Sherlock posesses.

The sun was shining and somewhere, the youth were arising caked in sun cream and cruising with soft rooftops and a shortage of clothes. John was lead in his bedroom. Mid-early-morning as was customary since being recruited that he attack a leather-bound diary with a fountain pen. He was quite nocturnal, the opposite of Sherlock but once that routine was done, he rarely got the sleep he needed. One hour since then he hadn't left his room. He refused to leave his first before Sherlock. It was the type of sulking that they both got up to. Whoever left first would be subject to the other spilling out and raging at the other in some form.

Mrs Hudson could always spot this a mile off. If she couldn't hear loud noises by 7am she would intervene like that morning. Sherlock was on the floor of his bedroom. If you looked closely you might seen a trembling bottom lip. In boredom he had taken every piece of clothing from his wardrobe and he sat among mountains of them. It was time for his very well planned crawl to the door and deduce what was going on in the opposite room.

So far he had deduced a patience from John that Sherlock was in a dangerous lack of, John had pressed his head against his own door once or twice, he'd even been bold enough to open it at exactly two minutes to five. To mislead, discieve or debate whether or not to go to the bathroom, he didn't know. But by the level of footing and the sound of gritted teeth at one minute to five he could deduce that John had chosen to 'keep it in'.

Sherlock was now pressing himself spred-eagled upon the door. His tactics had become less cautious because quite frankly it was getting ridiculous and he wanted John to hear everything. John's bedroom would become really hot in the mornings and he desperately needed a shower. At the least, his head danced and he sighed, a moist towel for his brow. Making a cup of tea and accidently forgetting it and coming back to it ice cold wouldn't go amiss, either.

Mrs Hudson came through with a hoover which she plugged in in the socket next to John's room. He warily rose, fully dressed to accomodate the movement. Mrs Hudson unravelled the lead and scuffed the body of the hoover over to Sherlock's bedroom. She flicked the switch and pressed the hoover against the door. The impact made Sherlock flew back from the door losing his grip entirely and causing him to fall over his bed and tumble to the floor.

Mrs Hudson smiled sweetly. "Sherlock, breakfast is waiting."

Sherlock rose, reconstructing his formal stance and brushed off the obstacle.

He leaned down to the keyhole and he muttered, as emotionless as he could. "Now isn't an option."

Mrs Hudson trailed the hoover over to John's door who already had his head leaned against his hand in exasperation and was waiting, the door ajar. "Be reasonable."

Mrs Hudson moved the hoover against the door so it completely opened. John's eyes widened looking straight across to see how Sherlock interpreted that into the rules of the game. Gaining no reaction he hastily slammed the door shut.

Sherlock went into a monologue behind his door, criticising and rambling about the pure idiocy of those unable to back down when they have already lost just by breathing. All of this just for a pile of words of affection. In ways he was beginning to feel an unknown emotion called guilt that he had not returned it.

Mrs Hudson finished hoovering and she stood in the middle of the whole, her movements tracked by both full men cowering behind the doors. Mrs Hudson knew them more well than her monthly issue she collected about crochette and horroscopes, more than her sons if she had any. She crowed gently as she thought back to the severe miscarriage 29 weeks into her preganacy almost 20 years ago. She took a slow, lingering breath.

Sherlock and John hanged on to the silence as Mrs Hudson filled her (never smoked in her life, perfect set, thank you very much) lungs.

She shrieked. "A SPIDER. OH. OH. OH BOYS PL-PLES-"

before she even had a chance to finish, both men in entire parallall to each other threw their doors open and touched either side of her cheeks with their palms.

What brought them together in unchangeable mutinity was their unwavering love for Mrs Hudson.

"Mr Hudson what ever is the matter...it's not like you to be defeated by something so small."

"Don't listen to him-listen to me. Take a deep breathe, look at me, look at me. We will overcome your fear in time." he shot a glare at Sherlock. "Time and care, something Sherlock doesn't know about."

Sherlock's attention sank into John and they both side stepped away from Mrs Hudson glowering in confrontation and repression.

Sherlock gloated dehumanising himself from his hurt. "From that poem, clearly you do." he murmured with a smirk in his voice.

John lowered his guard as if Sherlock had knocked a foot off him. "Yes. As a matter of fact I do." like he had caught wind in his sails again his voice was cutting and firm. "It's not even about the accuracy of my words, Sherlock."

"Educate me."

John shoved him to repeat the startled expression written on Sherlock's face before when he had done something similar. Sherlock didn't budge, immune, or welcoming, who knows?

John backed away. "You had no right. That was my point."

"I was teaching Mrs Hudson."

John rounded back on Sherlock. "Not about my bloody thoughts, or my bloody dsylexia."

Sherlock looked genuinely taken aback. "I didn't know."

"Come off it."

"No, I mean it, John. You would never be able to tell."

"Don't mess with me. That's it was such an amusement for you to be reading it."

"I was in no way amused by any of the content."

Carrying on, capturing John's attention, Sherlock moved his arm around Mrs Hudson and he spoke. "The content was immaculate John. You must know that, the lengths of respect I have for your literature style. I-"

Mrs Hudson gave an input, silencing Sherlock with her finger against his lips as she focused on John. "What Sherly dear really means is the prospect of what you wrote. He likes it very much- he told me so in incredible detail. You wouldn't think it, would you, looking at the blackness that covers him so? he forgets that we see him, really seem him-"

Sherlock looked bewildered and embarrassed by the forthcoming information. Mrs Hudson had a habit of that.

"Anyway it's his poor insecurity. I think he thinks that you were being amusing about him. Mocking, if you like..."

"Mrs Hudson, please." Sherlock laughed gently, distracted by her words.

"Shush. Now. You two boys need to kiss and make up. I've changed your nappies and wiped your bottoms and now it's time for you both to learn how to talk. How about you start with 'hello?'"

She disappeared down the stairs like a prophet sent down to earth for the sole purpose of solving disputes and enlightenment.

John processed what had just been said. He shuffled his pockets awkwardly. "I wouldn't like to disobey the lady so, hello."

Sherlock absorbed John with his eyes, watching his soul and not hiding being blown away by it. "Hello."

It was as if they had met for the first time.

Yes. Mrs Hudson knew her boys more than anyone.


End file.
